Warren Murphy - Unite and Conquer

"Jou must pay the NAFTA tax if we are to land, senores. "

Remo folded his lean arms. "Go ahead. Crash the plane. I dare you."

"Yes," said Chiun, also folding his silk-clad arms, "destroy yourselves. We do not care. We have been taxed nearly to death. You are demanding blood from two stones."

Shaking his fist in their faces the captain vowed, "Mexicans will never bend to American intimidations."

"That wasn't a threat, we just-"

But the captain had already spun on his heel and stormed back to the cabin. The door slammed shut so hard the overhead luggage bins shook in sympathy.

"We win," Chiun said blandly.

"I'm not so sure about that ...."

Seconds later the 727 nosed into a steep dive. The engines began howling. Rushing air screamed over the wings and other control surfaces. Standing passengers were thrown off their feet. Anyone seated was jammed forward in his seat. A stewardess coming out of the rear rest room landed on her stomach and, despite her best efforts to grab chair supports, inexorably slid toward the front of the aircraft, her liquid eyes full of fear.

"Now will jou pay the tax?" the captain demanded over the intercom.

"Damn," said Remo, jumping from his seat so fast his seat belt snapped in two. Chiun followed, an emerald specter.

Remo hit the cockpit door. It was locked. He was stepping back to kick it in when the Master of Sinanju floated up and inserted one long fingernail into the lock aperture. He twisted his finger left, then right. The lock went click, and he flung the door open with a grand gesture.

"Thanks," said Remo.

He stepped into the cabin.

The captain and copilot were frozen in their seats. The captain had thrown the control yoke all the way forward. Eyes welded shut, the copilot was making the sign of the cross.

Through the windshield, Remo could see the mountains of northern Mexico coming up to meet the plane like blunt brown teeth.

"Are you crazy!" he exploded.

"The tax or muerte! Viva Mexico!"

Remo took the captain by his right earlobe. With his free hand he took the copilot's left earlobe. He squeezed.

"Aieee!" they screamed in stereo.

"Pull up now or the pain gets worse," Remo warned.

And Remo squeezed harder on the earlobe nerve that filled the veins and nervous system with a sensation exactly like that of scalding acid.

Tears squeezing from his eyes, the captain pulled back on the yoke. The plane, shuddering, brought its nose up. The air scream abated. The turbines settled down. They were soon flying level again.

"Jou may let go now, senor," the captain gasped. "I have done as jou have asked."

"You through screwing around?" Remo demanded.

"Si."

"You going to land the plane?"

"On my mother's honor."

"On the ground is all I care about," said Remo, returning to his seat.

Chiun trailed him, saying, "Without me, where would you be at this exact moment?"

"Probably pounding a beat back in Newark," Remo said unhappily.

"That is not what I meant."

"You would be dead if it were not for the elegant Knives of Eternity which grace my perfect hands."

"Okay, I'd be dead. But I'm not growing my fingernails as long as Fu Manchu."

Chiun beat him to their row so Remo couldn't steal the window seat. When he saw that the wing was still attached to the plane, his bony fingers grasped the opposite wrist, and the verdant sleeves of his silk kimono closed over both hands.

After they got settled again, the stewardess came up and said, "Jou must pay for the seat belt jou broke."

Remo sighed. "How much?"

"Thirty dollars. American. We do not accept pesos."

"Figures. How much was the NAFTA tax?"

"Thirty dollars, but it is a coincidence."

Remo handed over three tens and noticed they went into the wicker basket labeled NAFTA.

"I never liked Mexico," Remo muttered.

"The House never lowered itself to working for them."

"Didn't you once tell me the House would have loved working for the Aztecs?"

"I lied. We would only have loved their gold, not their rulers."

"That's really convincing coming from someone who won't take his eyes off the wing because that's the time they pick to fall off. Unquote."

"It will happen to us some day. Mark my words."

When the Fasten Seat Belt sign came on, Remo tied his seat belt about his flat stomach like the sleeves of a sweater. Out the window the ring of mountains surrounding the Valley of Mexico loomed up like a jagged earthen wall.

Almost at once the plane shook as if buffeted by turbulence. Remo knew from past experience this was normal. Thermal updrafts from the valley below were constant.

But the buffeting grew violent. The Azteca Airlines plane dipped on one wing, and through the sealed window ports everyone could hear a thunderous rumble and roar.

"It is another terremotol" a man screamed.

"That means earthquake, " Chiun translated for Remo's benefit.

"Don't be ridiculous," Remo said. "Earthquakes shake the ground, not the air."

"It is an airquake!" the panicked passenger insisted.

"No," said the Master of Sinanju. "It is a volcano."

No sooner had the old Korean spoken the word than a cloud seemed to swallow the aircraft. The sky outside the window became a hideous smoky brown.

The emergency lights came on. Overhead compartments sprung open. Yellow plastic oxygen masks dropped down on their flexible tubes.

Chiun grabbed his, and Remo decided it was a good idea, so he followed suit.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain said in a fearstrangled voice. "I regret to inform jou that Mount Popocatepetl has erupted. We must divert to another airport."

The plane's engines began laboring and straining.

The 727 flew and flew through a realm of roiling denseness, like boiling liquid excrement. Nothing was visible beyond the portholes. Not even the winglights.

"Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "The wings are gone."

"If the wings were gone, Little Father, we'd be in a tailspin by now."

"Perhaps they are awaiting the most treacherous moment. Wings are sneaky that way. One never knows when they will choose to fall off."

"Remind me never to fly this airline again," Remo muttered.

"It is all the fault of NAFTA," the stewardess who had slid the length of the cabin said as she adjusted her foundation garments through her disheveled uniform.

"How is this NAFTA's fault?" Remo asked.

"NAFTA has angered the gods of old Mexico," she spit out the words with venom.

"That's ridiculous," said Remo.

Chiun laid a quieting hand on Remo's bare arm.

"Hush, Remo. Lest the gods of old Mexico hear your blasphemous words and wrench the wings from this mighty craft in their malevolent spite."

"Not you, too?"

"There is an old saying in my house. 'One may slay a king, but the wise assassin avoids treading on the bunions of the gods.'"

Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "The bunions of the gods?"

Chiun arranged his kimono skirts absently. "That is the saying. I did not make it up. I merely report it."

All at once daylight broke. The plane emerged from the roiling brown clouds of ash to broad daylight as if passing from the twilight zone of dusk and dawn.

On either side the wings shone as if scoured clean by the hot ash.

"Good thing these windows don't open," Remo muttered, removing his oxygen mask.

Chiun nodded sagely. "The gods are not displeased with us. Good."

The captain came on the intercom again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your capitan speaking. I am informed by the Mexico City tower that it is inadvisable to land for some time. We will divert to another city. I will now entertain offers as to the most popular city of your choice."

"What did he say?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Quickly! Offer him as much as is necessary to take us to our destination."